Scotched (21 page)

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Authors: Kaitlyn Dunnett

BOOK: Scotched
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Good-natured about the ribbing, Susie called out, “Over a year!” When the crowd laughed and applauded, she stood and took a bow.
Aunt Margaret leaned close to Liss to whisper in her ear. “A lot of these people know each other from other fan conferences.”
“So it seems.”
“More suspects.”
“Maybe.”
“I've been making a list,” Margaret said and pulled a small spiral notebook out of her purse.
Liss wasn't surprised. She'd picked up her list-making habit from spending time with her aunt. Most of the names on Margaret's list were the same ones Liss had written down. As Liss had, Margaret had labeled one page “Jane” and another “Nola.” Liss ran a finger down the first list, stopping at “Eleanor Ogilvie.”
That was the woman Jane Nedlinger had accosted after she'd talked to Dan at the opening reception. She'd worn a green name tag, indicating that she was a speaker at the conference. Liss had meant to look her up in the program but somehow she'd never gotten around to doing so. Now she tapped Ms. Ogilvie's name with her fingernail and lifted her eyebrows at Margaret in an unspoken question.
The noise level had risen, making conversation in normal voices next to impossible, but Margaret pointed at the next table. Liss recognized the stocky, hard-faced woman sitting there as the same one Dan had pointed out to her, but she was no closer to knowing any more about her.
“Who?” she mouthed at Margaret.
Margaret took back her notebook, fished a pen out of the tiny clutch purse she carried, and wrote, “Agent. Used to be an editor.”
Liss wondered what Jane had known about her. After the banquet, she'd try to find out, although the last thing she really wanted was to discover another likely suspect.
She returned her attention to the stage in time to see three of the attending authors rush the podium. To the obvious surprise of the toast-chick, they shouldered her aside and relieved her of the microphone.
“We're here to present the award for worst review of a great book,” Blair Somerled announced.
Liss's first reaction, when he held up a napkin-draped object—a statue of some kind, or perhaps a plaque—was to think that this award was in poor taste, considering that Jane Nedlinger, had she lived, might have been a serious contender for the “honor.” Then Somerled whipped off the covering to reveal a rather ghastly-looking stuffed pigeon wearing a red hat and a little cape.
A moment of shocked silence was followed by sustained, helpless laughter. The “presentation” was a spoof. Another Maine author, who wrote Elizabethan mysteries—Liss couldn't remember her name—put on a “literary” accent to read the mock review aloud. The text contained every cliché of a badly written negative critique. It even gave away the ending of a fictitious mystery novel titled
Off With Their Bodies!
As soon as she finished reading, the “reviewer”—a scarecrow dressed in a tux—was brought onstage to accept the award.
“A dummy with straw for brains,” someone in the audience remarked. “That's appropriate!” And everyone laughed again.
After Blair Somerled made a brief apology to Phoebe, Susie, and the other members of the organizing committee for the high jinks, the third author, someone Liss didn't recognize, turned to the crowd. “Of course this was all in fun,” she said, in the manner of a disclaimer. “We're certain any real reviewers among you would never turn out such a feeble attempt at literary criticism.” With that, all three left the stage.
“Well, that was the highlight of the conference for me,” said a tall redheaded woman sitting at Liss's table. She wiped tears of laughter from her face. “Too funny.”
“They'd better hope real reviewers have a sense of humor,” Margaret commented.
“The only reviewers likely to be at this conference are those who came here as fans. That means they appreciate humor.” The redhead's face split into a broad, toothy grin. “I should know. I am one.”
The scheduled program resumed with a brief speech by Yvonne Quinlan as guest of honor. After that, two real awards were presented. One was for service to the local mystery community. It was awarded, posthumously, to Nola Ventress, and accepted on her behalf by a solemn-faced Phoebe. The other was for favorite book by an author attending the conference. Liss vaguely remembered seeing a ballot in her goodie bag but she'd never gotten around to voting. She wasn't surprised when the award went to Yvonne Quinlan for her current best-seller.
Yvonne seemed genuinely surprised and absolutely delighted. “Thank you so much,” she gushed. “I've won a few acting awards in the past, but never one for my writing. I'm just so grateful for the recognition, and I promise you that I intend to continue the Toni Starling series for many years to come. I might even reveal a bit about Simon's distant past in the next one.”
“Hypocrite,” Liss muttered under cover of tumultuous applause.
Her gaze drifted over nearby tables until it came to rest on Eleanor Ogilvie. She looked as if she, too, found Yvonne's claims hard to swallow.
The banquet wound down around ten, but almost everyone in attendance lingered and mingled, chatting with friends or sidling up to authors for one more brush with fame. There were additional panels scheduled for the morning, and a group signing, followed by a tea, but no one seemed in a hurry to call it a night.
“Why do you have Eleanor Ogilvie on your list?” Liss asked Margaret as she set a course to intercept the editor-turned-agent.
“I saw Jane Nedlinger talking to her at the opening reception. They were huddled together when I got back from checking that everything was set to show those classic movies. At that point, of course, I didn't know who she was.”
“And who is she?” Margaret's tone of voice made Liss think that Eleanor Ogilvie must be someone important.
“Oh, didn't you know? She's Yvonne Quinlan's literary agent.”
Margaret's identification came just as there was a brief diminution in the noise level. Overhearing, Ms. Ogilvie snapped her head around, looking for the person who'd been talking about her. Liss saw no advantage in subtlety.
“I'm Liss MacCrimmon from the dealers' room,” she said as she covered the last few feet to Ms. Ogilvie's side, “and this is my aunt, Margaret Boyd, the hotel's events coordinator. I wonder if you'd mind telling us what you talked about with Jane Nedlinger on Thursday evening?”
Her forthrightness earned her a frosty look and an even colder tone of voice. “I don't see where that's any of your business.”
“Jane's dead.”
“So is Nola, poor woman.”
The editor-turned-agent for the actress-turned-writer took another swallow of the drink she carried—a rum and cola by the look of it.
“Can I buy you another drink?” Liss asked. “I'd really like to talk to you.”
“I don't discuss my clients. And if you're a writer, I'm not interested in taking on any new ones. I only came here because I owed Nola a favor. I participated in a panel discussion. That paid off my debt.”
Margaret stepped in to soothe where Liss had riled. “That was very generous of you and I'm sure that's why Nola always spoke so highly of you.”
Liss gave her aunt a sharp look. She hadn't realized Margaret could lie so smoothly.
Eleanor shook her head. “I doubt that. Nola didn't like me much.”
“Why not?” Liss asked.
Eleanor drained her glass. “Because back when I was an editor, I rejected her first book.”
“
Contract for Murder
?”
“You know it?” Her face was a study in astonishment.
“I read the e-book.”
Eleanor's lips pursed in disapproval. Of Nola making her novel available electronically, Liss wondered, or of e-books in general? Then something clicked. “You called it her
first
book. That means you know she wrote others. And I'll bet you know under what name.”
The flash of panic in Eleanor's eyes gave her away, although she quickly denied that she had any idea what Liss was talking about.
“So you've had nothing to do with Nola since you left editing to become an agent?”
“I didn't say that.” Eleanor's frown turned into a scowl when she lifted her glass and found it empty.
“You were ticked off at Yvonne when she gave her acceptance speech,” Liss said. “Did you expect her to acknowledge your contribution?”
Eleanor shrugged and a sardonic smile twisted her thin lips. “She didn't mention her manager, either.”
“And she didn't mention Nola, even though Nola must have been on her mind.”
“On her mind? How do you mean?” The panic was back, although once again it was swiftly controlled.
“Nola had just been given an award,” Liss reminded her. “It would have been natural to acknowledge her contribution to the conference, if nothing else. Without Nola, Yvonne would not have won that award.”
“Yes, I see.” Eleanor began to relax. “No conference, no award.”
“No Nola, no Yvonne Quinlan novels.” Liss leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “I know Nola was Yvonne's ghostwriter. Anyone who reads
Contract for Murder
can see the similarities.”
Eleanor drew herself up, looked down a rather large, long nose at Liss, and gave her a withering stare. “I don't know what you're talking about,” she said again. Then she turned and strode out of the ballroom.
“Good luck finding a replacement,” Liss called after her.
She thought she knew what must have happened. Years ago, for whatever reason, Eleanor Ogilvie had rejected Nola's novel. Later, as an agent, she'd remembered the writing and persuaded Nola, who still hadn't sold anything under her own name, to ghostwrite Yvonne's books. Then Jane had found out about the arrangement. That explained why she'd buttonholed Eleanor, as well as Bill, Yvonne, and Nola, at the opening reception. Jane had been working on two stories simultaneously. One had been about Liss and Moosetookalook. The other had concerned Nola and Yvonne.
“Uh-oh,” Margaret murmured. “Your bodyguard is back.”
Liss scanned the ballroom for Dan and located him on the far side of the room. He'd been waylaid by Tricia Lynd, one of the hotel employees, but he was staring right at Liss. She waggled her fingers at him and then showed him her back. “This is getting really old, really fast.”
“I think it's sweet,” Margaret said, “and since he's not keeping an eye on me, I think I'll just slip away and see what I can find.”
The look on Margaret's face alarmed Liss. “Find where?”
“In Yvonne Quinlan's suite. I have a passkey.”
“Margaret! That's crazy. If you get caught, Joe will fire you.”
“It's worth the risk. I've been thinking all evening about what you told me. I won't allow Nola to become a scapegoat. I may be able to find something in Yvonne's belongings that will prove she's the guilty one, just as you suspect.”
The crowd was starting to gravitate toward the exit. Margaret joined the herd, working her way closer to the nearest door. Liss looked again for Dan. For the moment, whatever Tricia was telling him had his full attention. Liss seized the opportunity and followed her aunt. The way the conference-goers were milling about, she imagined Dan would have trouble catching up with them, even if he realized right away that they'd left the ballroom.
She found Margaret waiting for the elevator, surrounded by banquet-goers. Her aunt's intentions alarmed her—and gave her a much better understanding of why it was that Dan worried about her so much. And why he tended to turn bossy when he was concerned about her safety. Now that she was experiencing some of those same fears on Margaret's behalf, she was sorely tempted to order her aunt to cease and desist. Only the fact that she knew it wouldn't do any good stopped her. When the elevator doors opened, they both got in.
Snooping around at the hotel was not new territory for Liss. Her only qualms came from bringing Aunt Margaret into the mix. Even though Liss understood that Margaret felt guilty because she'd been the one to convince Nola to hold the conference in Moosetookalook, she'd never expected her aunt to show such a determined streak.
For a miracle, they boarded the elevator before most of the conference-goers left the banquet and descended on it. And Dan was nowhere in sight as the doors slid shut. There were eight other people crowded into the car. Liss didn't know any of them, but their presence gave her an added reason not to spend the short ascent trying to talk Margaret out of her plan. If she was honest with herself, she wasn't sure she wanted to. It would be very nice indeed if they could find proof that Yvonne was guilty of two murders. She remained silent as she followed her aunt down the third-floor hallway and watched her insert her master key in the lock of Yvonne Quinlan's suite.

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